Temple Bailey - Contrary Mary

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CONTRARY MARY

by

TEMPLE BAILEY

Author of
Glory of Youth

Illustrations by Charles S. Corson

[Frontispiece: She flashed a quick glance at him.]

New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright
1914 by
The Penn Publishing Company
First printing, December, 1914
Second printing, February, 1915
Third printing, March, 1915
Fourth printing, March, 1915
Fifth printing, April, 1915
Sixth printing, July, 1915
Seventh printing, November, 1915

To My Sister

Contents

CHAPTER I

In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face with Old Friends.

CHAPTER II

In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason
for Renting a Gentleman's Library.

CHAPTER III

In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of this Tale is
Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances with the Rest.

CHAPTER IV

In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
Forgets that There is Any One Else in the House.

CHAPTER V

In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice; and in
Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part.

CHAPTER VI

In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms, and in Which Roger
Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads.

CHAPTER VII

In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and is
Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon the
Stairs.

CHAPTER VIII

In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place; and
in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone.

CHAPTER IX

In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress;
and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way.

CHAPTER X

In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
Flares Later in the Tower.

CHAPTER XI

In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
Pages of a Book.

CHAPTER XII

In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy.

CHAPTER XIII

In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens; and in Which Life is
Looked Upon as a Great Adventure.

CHAPTER XIV

In Which Mary Writes from the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
from Among the Pines.

CHAPTER XV

In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which a
March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon.

CHAPTER XVI

In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary.

CHAPTER XVII

In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For; and
in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red.

CHAPTER XVIII

In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World; and in Which Roger Writes
of the Dreams of a Boy.

CHAPTER XIX

In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes, and in
Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary.

CHAPTER XX

In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
Sees Things in a Crystal Ball.

CHAPTER XXI

In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar.

CHAPTER XXII

In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreamt.

CHAPTER XXIII

In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets.

CHAPTER XXIV

In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
is Fought in Modern Fashion.

CHAPTER XXV

In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life, and in Which She Finds
Happiness on the High Seas.

CHAPTER XXVI

In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight.

Illustrations

She flashed a quick glance at him . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"What have I done?"

"You don't know what you are doing."

"Again I question your right."

Contrary Mary

CHAPTER I

_In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face With Old Friends._

The big house, standing on a high hill which overlooked the city,
showed in the moonlight the grotesque outlines of a composite
architecture. Originally it had been a square substantial edifice of
Colonial simplicity. A later and less restrained taste had aimed at a
castellated effect, and certain peaks and turrets had been added.
Three of these turrets were excrescences stuck on, evidently, with an
idea of adornment. The fourth tower, however, rounded out and enlarged
a room on the third floor. This room was one of a suite, and the rooms
were known as the Tower Rooms, and were held by those who had occupied
them to be the most desirable in the barn-like building.

To-night the house had taken on an unwonted aspect of festivity. Its
spaciousness was checkered by golden-lighted windows. Delivery wagons
and automobiles came and went, some discharging loads of deliciousness
at the back door, others discharging loads of loveliness at the front.

Following in the wake of one of the front door loads of fluttering
femininity came a somewhat somber pedestrian. His steps lagged a
little, so that when the big door opened, he was still at the foot of
the terrace which led up to it. He waited until the door was shut
before he again advanced. In the glimpse that he thus had of the
interior, he was aware of a sort of pink effulgence, and in that
shining light, lapped by it, and borne up, as it were, by it toward the
wide stairway, he saw slender girls in faint-hued frocks--a shimmering
celestial company.

As he reached the top of the terrace the door again flew open, and he
gave a somewhat hesitating reason for his intrusion.

"I was told to ask for Miss Ballard--Miss Mary Ballard."

It seemed that he was expected, and that the guardian of the doorway
understood the difference between his business and that of the
celestial beings who had preceded him.

He was shown into a small room at the left of the entrance. It was
somewhat bare, with a few law books and a big old-fashioned desk. He
judged that the room might have been put to office uses, but to-night
the desk was heaped with open boxes, and odd pieces of furniture were
crowded together, so that there was left only a small oasis of cleared
space. On the one chair in this oasis, the somber gentleman seated
himself.

He had a fancy, as he sat there waiting, that neither he nor this room
were in accord with the things that were going on in the big house.
Outside of the closed door the radiant guests were still ascending the
stairway on shining wings of light. He could hear the music of their
laughter, and the deeper note of men's voices, rising and growing
fainter in a sort of transcendent harmony.

When the door was finally opened, it was done quickly and was shut
quickly, and the girl who had entered laughed breathlessly as she
turned to him.

"Oh, you must forgive me--I've kept you waiting?"

If their meeting had been in Sherwood forest, he would have known her
at once for a good comrade; if he had met her in the Garden of
Biaucaire, he would have known her at once for more than that. But,
being neither a hero of ballad nor of old romance, he knew only that
here was a girl different from the silken ladies who had ascended the
stairs. Here was an air almost of frank boyishness, a smile of
pleasant friendliness, with just enough of flushing cheek to show
womanliness and warm blood.

Even her dress was different. It was simple almost to the point of
plainness. Its charm lay in its glimmering glistening sheen, like the
inside of a shell. Its draperies were caught up to show slender feet
in low-heeled slippers. A quaint cap of silver tissue held closely the
waves of thick fair hair. Her eyes were like the sea in a storm--deep
gray with a glint of green.

These things did not come to him at once. He was to observe them as
she made her explanation, and as he followed her to the Tower Rooms.
But first he had to set himself straight with her, so he said: "I was
sorry to interrupt you. But you said--seven?"

"Yes. It was the only time that the rooms could be seen. My sister
and I occupy them--and Constance is to be married--to-night."

This, then, was the reason for the effulgence and the silken ladies.
It was the reason, too, for the loveliness of her dress.

"I am going to take you this way." She preceded him through a narrow
passage to a flight of steps leading up into the darkness. "These
stairs are not often used, but we shall escape the crowds in the other
hall."

Her voice was lost as she made an abrupt turn, but, feeling his way, he
followed her.

Up and up until they came to a third-floor landing, where she stopped
him to say, "I must be sure no one is here. Will you wait until I see?"

She came back, presently, to announce that the coast was clear, and
thus they entered the room which had been enlarged and rounded out by
the fourth tower.

It was a big room, ceiled and finished in dark oak, The furniture was
roomy and comfortable and of worn red leather. A strong square table
held a copper lamp with a low spreading shade. There was a fireplace,
and on the mantel above it a bust or two.

But it was not these things which at once caught the attention of Roger
Poole.

Lining the walls were old books in stout binding, new books in cloth
and fine leather--the poets, the philosophers, the seers of all ages.
As his eyes swept the shelves, he knew that here was the living,
breathing collection of a true book-lover--not a musty, fusty
aggregation brought together through mere pride of intellect. The
owner of this library had counted the heart-beats of the world.

"This is the sitting-room," his guide was telling him, "and the bedroom
and bath open out from it." She had opened a connecting door. "This
room is awfully torn up. But we have just finished dressing Constance.
She is down-stairs now in the Sanctum. We'll pack her trunks to-morrow
and send them, and then if you should care to take the rooms, we can
put back the bedroom furniture that father had. He used this suite,
and brought his books up after mother died."

He halted on the threshold of that inner room. If the old house below
had seemed filled with rosy effulgence, this was the heart of the rose.
Two small white beds were side by side in an alcove. Their covers were
of pink overlaid with lace, and the chintz of the big couch and chairs
reflected the same enchanting hue. With all the color, however, there
was the freshness of simplicity. Two tall glass candlesticks on the
dressing table, a few photographs in silver and ivory frames--these
were the only ornaments.

Yet everywhere was lovely confusion--delicate things were thrown
half-way into open trunks, filmy fabrics floated from unexpected
places, small slippers were held by receptacles never designed for
shoes, radiant hats bloomed in boxes.

On a chair lay a bridesmaid's bunch of roses. This bunch Mary Ballard
picked up as she passed, and it was over the top of it that she asked,
with some diffidence, "Do you think you'd care to take the rooms?"

Did he? Did the Peri outside the gates yearn to enter? Here within
his reach was that from which he had been cut off for five years. Five
years in boarding-houses and cheap hotels, and now the chance to live
again--as he had once lived!

"I do want them--awfully--but the price named in your letter seems
ridiculously small----"

"But you see it is all I shall need," she was as blissfully
unbusinesslike as he. "I want to add a certain amount to my income, so
I ask you to pay that," she smiled, and with increasing diffidence
demanded, "Could you make up your mind--now? It is important that I
should know--to-night."

She saw the question in his eyes and answered it, "You see--my family
have no idea that I am doing this. If they knew, they wouldn't want me
to rent the rooms--but the house is mine---I shall do as I please."

She seemed to fling it at him, defiantly.

"And you want me to be accessory to your--crime."

She gave him a startled glance. "Oh, do you look at it--that way?
Please don't. Not if you like them."

For a moment, only, he wavered. There was something distinctly unusual
in acquiring a vine and fig tree in this fashion. But then her
advertisement had been unusual--it was that which had attracted him,
and had piqued his interest so that he had answered it.

And the books! As he looked back into the big room, the rows of
volumes seemed to smile at him with the faces of old friends.

Lonely, longing for a haven after the storms which had beaten him, what
better could he find than this?

As for the family of Mary Ballard, what had he to do with it? His
business was with Mary Ballard herself, with her frank laugh and her
friendliness--and her arms full of roses!

"I like them so much that I shall consider myself most fortunate to get
them."

"Oh, really?" She hesitated and held out her hand to him. "You don't
know how you have helped me out--you don't know how you have helped
me----"

Again she saw a question in his eyes, but this time she did not answer
it. She turned and went into the other room, drawing back the curtains
of the deep windows of the round tower.

"I haven't shown you the best of all," she said. Beneath them lay the
lovely city, starred with its golden lights. From east to west the
shadowy dimness of the Mall, beyond the shadows, a line of river,
silver under the moonlight. A clock tower or two showed yellow faces;
the great public buildings were clear-cut like cardboard.

Roger drew a deep breath. "If there were nothing else," he said, "I
should take the rooms for this."

And now from the lower hall came the clamor of voices.

"_Mary! Mary!_"

"I must not keep you," he said at once.

"_Mary!_"

Poised for flight, she asked, "Can you find your way down alone? I'll
go by the front stairs and head them off."

"_Mary----!_"

With a last flashing glance she was gone, and as he groped his way down
through the darkness, it came to him as an amazing revelation that she
had taken his coming as a thing to be thankful for, and it had been so
many years since a door had been flung wide to welcome him.

CHAPTER II

_In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason for
Renting a Gentleman's Library._

In spite of the fact that Mary Ballard had seemed to Roger Poole like a
white-winged angel, she was not looked upon by the family as a beauty.
It was Constance who was the "pretty one," and tonight as she stood in
her bridal robes, gazing up at her sister who was descending the stairs,
she was more than pretty. Her tender face was illumined by an inner
radiance. She was two years older than Mary, but more slender, and her
coloring was more strongly emphasized. Her eyes were blue and her hair
was gold, as against the gray-green and dull fairness of Mary's hair.
She seemed surrounded, too, by a sort of feminine _aura_, so that one
knew at a glance that here was a woman who would love her home, her
husband, her children; who would lean upon masculine protection, and
suffer from masculine neglect.

Of Mary Ballard these things could not be said at once. In spite of her
simplicity and frankness, there was about her a baffling atmosphere. She
was like a still pool with the depths as yet unsounded, an uncharted
sea--with its mystery of undiscovered countries.

The contrast between the sisters had never been more marked than when
Mary, leaning over the stair-rail, answered the breathless, "Dearest,
where have you been?" with her calm:

"There's plenty of time, Constance."

And Constance, soothed as always by her sister's tranquillity, repeated
Mary's words for the benefit of a ponderously anxious Personage in amber
satin.

"There's plenty of time, Aunt Frances."

That Aunt Frances _was_ a Personage was made apparent by certain exterior
evidences. One knew it by the set of her fine shoulders, the carriage of
her head, by the diamond-studded lorgnette, by the string of pearls about
her neck, by the osprey in her white hair, by the golden buckles on her
shoes.

"It is five minutes to eight," said Aunt Frances, "and Gordon is waiting
down-stairs with his best man, the chorus is freezing on the side porch,
and _everybody_ has arrived. I don't see _why_ you are waiting----"

"We are waiting for it to be eight o'clock, Aunt Frances," said Mary.
"At just eight, I start down in front of Constance, and if you don't
hurry you and Aunt Isabelle won't be there ahead of me."

The amber train slipped and glimmered down the polished steps, and the
golden buckles gleamed as Mrs. Clendenning, panting a little and with a
sense of outrage that her nervous anxiety of the preceding moment had
been for naught, made her way to the drawing-room, where the guests were
assembled.

Aunt Isabelle followed, gently smiling. Aunt Isabelle was to Aunt
Frances as moonlight unto sunlight. Aunt Frances was married, Aunt
Isabelle was single; Aunt Frances wore amber, Aunt Isabelle silver gray;
Aunt Frances held up her head like a queen, Aunt Isabelle dropped hers
deprecatingly; Aunt Frances' quick ears caught the whispers of admiration
that followed her, Aunt Isabelle's ears were closed forever to all the
music of the universe.

No sooner had the two aunts taken their places to the left of a floral
bower than there was heard without the chanted wedding chorus, from a
side door stepped the clergyman and the bridegroom and his best man; then
from the hall came the little procession with Mary in the lead and
Constance leaning on the arm of her brother Barry.

They were much alike, this brother and sister. More alike than Mary and
Constance. Barry had the same gold in his hair, and blue in his eyes,
and, while one dared not hint it, in the face of his broad-shouldered
strength, there was an almost feminine charm in the grace of his manner
and the languor of his movements.

There were no bridesmaids, except Mary, but four pretty girls held the
broad white ribbons which marked an aisle down the length of the rooms.
These girls wore pink with close caps of old lace. Only one of them had
dark hair, and it was the dark-haired one, who, standing very still
throughout the ceremony, with the ribbon caught up to her in lustrous
festoons, never took her eyes from Barry Ballard's face.

And when, after the ceremony, the bride turned to greet her friends, the
dark-haired girl moved forward to where Barry stood, a little apart from
the wedding group.

"Doesn't it seem strange?" she said to him with quick-drawn breath.

He smiled down at her. "What?"

"That a few words should make such a difference?"

"Yes. A minute ago she belonged to us. Now she's Gordon's."

"And he's taking her to England?"

"Yes. But not for long. When he gets the branch office started over
there, they'll come back, and he'll take his father's place in the
business here, and let the old man retire."

She was not listening. "Barry," she interrupted, "what will Mary do?
She can't live here alone--and she'll miss Constance."

"Oh, Aunt Frances has fixed that," easily; "she wants Mary to shut up the
house and spend the winter in Nice with herself and Grace--it's a great
chance for Mary."

"But what about you, Barry?"

"Me?" He shrugged his shoulders and again smiled down at her. "I'll find
quarters somewhere, and when I get too lonesome, I'll come over and talk
to you, Leila."

The rich color flooded her cheeks. "Do come," she said, again with
quick-drawn breath, then like a child who has secured its coveted
sugar-plum, she slipped through the crowd, and down into the dining-room,
where she found Mary taking a last survey.

"Hasn't Aunt Frances done things beautifully?" Mary asked; "she insisted
on it, Leila. We could never have afforded the orchids and the roses;
and the ices are charming--pink hearts with cupids shooting at them with
silver arrows----"

"Oh, Mary," the dark-haired girl laid her flushed cheek against the arm
of her taller friend. "I think weddings are wonderful."

Mary shook her head. "I don't," she said after a moment's silence. "I
think they're horrid. I like Gordon Richardson well enough, except when
I think that he is stealing Constance, and then I hate him."

But the bride was coming down, with all the murmuring voices behind her,
and now the silken ladies were descending the stairs to the dining-room,
which took up the whole lower west wing of the house and opened out upon
an old-fashioned garden, which to-night, under a chill October moon,
showed its rows of box and of formal cedars like sharp shadows against
the whiteness.

Into this garden came, later, Mary. And behind her Susan Jenks.

Susan Jenks was a little woman with gray hair and a coffee-colored skin.
Being neither black nor white, she partook somewhat of the nature of both
races. Back of her African gentleness was an almost Yankee shrewdness,
and the firm will which now and then degenerated into obstinacy.

"There ain't no luck in a wedding without rice, Miss Mary. These paper
rose-leaf things that you've got in the bags are mighty pretty, but how
are you going to know that they bring good luck?"

"Aunt Frances thought they would be charming and foreign, Susan, and they
look very real, floating off in the air. You must stand there on the
upper porch, and give the little bags to the guests."

Susan ascended the terrace steps complainingly. "You go right in out of
the night, Miss Mary," she called back, "an' you with nothin' on your
bare neck!"

Mary, turning, came face to face with Gordon's best man, Porter Bigelow.

"Mary," he said, impetuously, "I've been looking for you everywhere. I
couldn't keep my eyes off you during the service--you were--heavenly."

"I'm not a bit angelic, Porter," she told him, "and I'm simply freezing
out here. I had to show Susan about the confetti."

He drew her in and shut the door. "They sent me to hunt for you," he
said. "Constance wants you. She's going up-stairs to change. But I
heard just now that you are going to Nice. Leila told me. Mary--you
can't go--not so far away--from me."

His hand was on her arm.

She shook it off with a little laugh.

"You haven't a thing to do with it, Porter. And I'm not going--to Nice."

"But Leila said----"

Her head went up. It was a characteristic gesture. "It doesn't make any
difference what _any one_ says. I'm not going to Nice."

Once more in the Tower Rooms, the two sisters were together for the last
time. Leila was sent down on a hastily contrived errand. Aunt Frances,
arriving, was urged to go back and look after the guests. Only Aunt
Isabelle was allowed to remain. She could be of use, and the things
which were to be said she could not hear.

"Dearest," Constance's voice had a break in it, "dearest, I feel so
selfish--leaving you----"

Mary was kneeling on the floor, unfastening hooks. "Don't worry, Con.
I'll get along."

"But you'll have to bear--things--all alone. It isn't as if any one
knew, and you could talk it out."

"I'd rather die than speak of it," fiercely, "and I sha'n't write
anything to you about it, for Gordon will read your letters."

"Oh, Mary, he won't."

"Oh, yes, he will, and you'll want him to--you'll want to turn your heart
inside out for him to read, to say nothing of your letters."

She stood up and put both of her hands on her sister's shoulders. "But
you mustn't tell him, Con. No matter how much you want to, it's my
secret and Barry's--promise me, Con----"

"But, Mary, a wife can't."

"Yes, she _can_ have secrets from her husband. And this belongs to us,
not to him. You've married him, Con, but we haven't."

Aunt Isabelle, gentle Aunt Isabelle, shut off from the world of sound,
could not hear Con's little cry of protest, but she looked up just in
time to see the shimmering dress drop to the floor, and to see the bride,
sheathed like a lily in whiteness, bury her head on Mary's shoulder.

Aunt Isabelle stumbled forward. "My dear," she asked, in her thin
troubled voice, "what makes you cry?"

"It's nothing, Aunt Isabelle." Mary's tone was not loud, but Aunt
Isabelle heard and nodded.

"She's dead tired, poor dear, and wrought up. I'll run and get the
aromatic spirits."

With Aunt Isabella out of the way, Mary set herself to repair the damage
she had done. "I've made you cry on your wedding day, Con, and I wanted
you to be so happy. Oh, tell Gordon, if you must. But you'll find that
he won't look at it as you and I have looked at it. He won't make the
excuses."

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